


These Broken Wings

by evil_whimsey



Series: Blackbird [3]
Category: Ouran High School Host Club
Genre: M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-13
Updated: 2011-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:45:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Book Three of the Blackbird series.  Sequel to Unguarded.  In which the story of Mori, Hunny, and Arai diverges from canon, heading for Alternate Timeline territory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part One

 

When Mori took top rank in his division at the National Kendo Championship for the fourth consecutive year, he knew that competition was his last.  He made his choice in the semifinal round, when his opponent--Nakamura Hitoshi--was being carried from the ring by a medic and two judges.

After a brief conference, the judges announced their unanimous decision:  Morinozuka was not at fault in Nakamura's injury.  It was clear he'd executed a point-perfect strike on Nakamura's armor, which had no direct bearing on what happened immediately after.  Nakamura had been competing, against the advice of his coach and sports physician, on a previously injured Achilles tendon.  The medics and judges determined it was Nakamura's retreat from Morinozuka's strike which stressed the injury to a critical degree.

The announcement was largely irrelevant to Mori, as was the judge's decision that his points would stand, and that he would pass to the final match.  Nakamura had been Mori's most challenging opponent all season; in years, in fact.  And even with the necessary surgery, it was unlikely the young man could return to the level he'd achieved.  It was doubtful he'd ever even compete in Kendo again, for that matter.

Hearing this news, Mori realized all at once that he was done.  It was bad enough seeing Nakamura fall, unable to rise on his own.  It was bad enough that the rules of engagement forbid Mori from dropping to the other man's side to render whatever aid he could.  But hearing that Nakamura was finished, for good in the sport....

Mori realized that he was finished for good, too.

He went on to the final round, but only to save that opponent the disgrace of a forfeit win.  He fought a careful, dispassionate, surgically perfect match.  His opponent sustained hardly a bruise; Mori won on form and strike points alone.  He endured as much of the press and ceremony afterward as he was able, and then fled for home, where he spent the next day and a half removing every trace of his competitive history from anywhere he could find it.

Mitsukuni found him on the afternoon of the second day, out in the estate storehouses on the north end of the property, dragging heavy trunks full of medals, photographs, uniforms, and all the other paraphernalia he had rounded up in a singleminded frenzy.

It was hot Indian summer;  the rains had yet to come, and Mori was stripped down to a set of old faded hakama he'd found.  He worked barefoot and bare-chested, with sweat rolling freely down his back and sides.  Mitsukuni said nothing for awhile, only watched as Mori moved boxes, other trunks, and heavy wooden crates of forgotten family treasures by hand, alone, in the stifling warehouse.

Mori suspected it was obvious to anyone with eyes that he was punishing himself for what had happened at Nationals.  But for the time being, he cared very little what anyone else thought.  Perhaps later he'd be embarrassed, but for now, he needed this.  The muscle strain, the splinters in his bare hands, his lower back on fire, and even the sick throb in his head brought on by heat and dehydration.  It was a very simple choice:  he could be doing this, suffering through this brutal mindless task, or else he could lock himself in his room and think, and go mad.

Eventually the work was done.  He'd cleared out room under some high shelves, and shoved his trunks across the dusty floor into that space.  Only then did he pause, collapse atop one of the trunks, and drop his head to his knees as the room spun gently around him.

"Takashi," Mitsukuni eventually said.  "Everyone in your house is afraid of you right now."

Mori sat with his head down and counted the harsh breaths burning his throat, in and out.  He thought he might have pulled something in his right shoulder.

"I heard about your friend, Nakamura-san.  They say his surgery went well."

A long breath came shuddering out of Mori.  He wasn't sure if it was relief, or perhaps the first sign of madness deciding to have a go at him after all.  His over-stretched calf muscles fluttered, and his hands felt like he'd been juggling cactus.

"Takashi."  Mitsukuni's voice was reassuringly calm.  "You're bleeding.  Maybe we should clean you up before anyone sees, huh?"

It was exhausting work, raising his head.  Mori got about halfway upright, before he had to prop his arms across his shaking knees.  His hands were indeed bleeding, he saw, gouged deep by the splinters from the wooden crates, and metal straps on his trunks.  No wonder they stung so insistently;  he'd been sweating like a horse.

"I saw Nakamura limping," he managed.  "I should have stopped the match right then."

He was almost pathetically grateful, for the hard, level look Mitsukuni sent him.  
"He would have hated you," his cousin stated, following up with a sharp businesslike nod.  "Let's get you to the doujo."

*  *

In the clean, tidy medical room back of the doujo, Mitsukuni helped him pull the splinters from his palms and fingers.  After he had washed his hands, his cousin applied bandages, in his efficient, methodical way.  He brought Mori a bottled water and two aspirin he'd found in a medicine cabinet;  Mori ignored the painkiller but downed the water in long, thirsty gulps.  It cleared his headache well enough, and unaccountably, lifted his mood somewhat too.

"There are things you could do, besides Kendo," Mitsukuni told him philosophically.  But Mori didn't want to think about Kendo at all, the doing or the not doing of it.  He shrugged.  
"Hm."

Mitsukuni eyed him a moment, then decided on a different topic.  
"The term at Ouran starts next week," he said.  "It feels strange, not getting ready for school."

He was right, Mori thought.  It did feel strange.  All their younger friends would be getting uniforms fitted, ordering school texts.  Receiving notices of club dues and class schedules.  It had been his own routine since primary school, and now it wasn't.  Odd.

He'd had different plans for the coming fall, mainly revolving around Kendo of course, leaving the rest of his schedule open to accommodate his cousin's activities.  Only now Kendo wasn't in his plans, and only then did Mori realize he'd had no idea what Mitsukuni would be doing.  Somehow over the summer, it had just....never come up.

"What will you do this year?" Mori asked.

His cousin blinked.  "I was--I thought about traveling."  
Mori wasn't sure about Mitsukuni's eyes, or his tone just then.  There was something suddenly vague, evasive there.  Like the time they were ten years old, and Mitsukuni's mother asked where all the cookies for her Christmas party had gone.

"Oh," Mori said.  The strangeness aside, a trip didn't seem like a bad idea at all.  "Traveling to where?"  
"Different places.  China, maybe."  
"China."

"And South America.  I've never been to Canada...."  
"A long trip then," Mori guessed.  
His cousin nodded, but his eyes roved the room slowly, not quite focusing on anything.  "A year.  Maybe two."

Mori had a strong intuition that Mitsukuni wasn't just pulling the answers from thin air on a whim;  he had given more thought to this than his vagueness was letting on.  But then, how had it never come up?  It wasn't like him to make plans of this magnitude without consulting with Mori first.  In fact, Mori had always been the sounding board for such ideas, usually from their inception, whether or not they actually came to pass.

"So," Mori ventured, feeling more uncomfortable the more he thought about it.  "When do you think you'd want to leave?"  
Mitsukuni's eyes focused sharply at that.  He darted a look at Mori, and then quickly away.  Mori sensed they were tottering on the edge of something dangerous, and he wished very much that he hadn't asked that question.

"Next week," Mitsukuni said softly.

Mori didn't need to look at his calendar to know he'd been booked solid next week.  It was all Kendo, and therefore all canceled now, but that wasn't the point.  If Mitsukuni had gone as far in his plans as China, South America, Canada, and next week, then this wasn't some momentary fancy.  He'd put thought into this, back when he'd known Mori would be involved with training, exhibition matches out of town, and....

He sank back in his chair, comprehension seeping in like a bad chill.  
"Mitsukuni.  Two years is a long time to be alone."

"But it's time, don't you think?"  He had to steel himself before going on.  "Do you remember when I spoke to Haninozuka-sama in the spring--?"  
Some dark, violent emotion jolted Mori forward.  

"What did he say to you this time?"  It came out rough, hard-edged, but all he could think of was that other time Haninozuka spoke to his son.  The wrenching aftermath, as the boy struggled to obey those impossible, implacable demands.  Mitsukuni had nearly torn himself apart, and all Mori could do was watch his cousin, day after day, robbed of his spirit and succumbing to misery.

"What is he making you do?" he demanded, feeling his voice break.  
"Takashi, no, please--."  Rushing over to clutch his arm, entreating him.  "Listen.  It isn't like that."

Mori's knees were shaking again, and he felt sick and somehow gutted inside.  But he forced himself to listen as Mitsukuni slowly, cautiously explained everything.

 

*  *  *  *  *


	2. Chapter 2

Part Two

 

The stadium was lit like a beacon in the soft spring evening.  Friends and families in the bleachers, joking and festive, cheering on their favorite players by name.

 _"Third quarter score is eighteen to twenty-five, with Katsura High School in the lead, after a bold play by their captain, Ishigaro-san...."_

Cleated shoes bit the turf; the ball tumbled amid a blur of ankles;  bodies jostled and scattered along painted white lines.

 _"Good job for Higashi High....their offense comes on strong with a down field kick by Number fifty-three, Momoto-san.... "_ The announcer's tones rang crisp and tight as the quick-change flight of the ball, zig-zagging across the turf.  It went airborne, and in an eyeblink its flight reversed.

The ever-present voice of the crowd rose and ebbed with the direction of the ball, and players raced, down field center, shoulders crowding, sweat-soaked hair tossed into bright blinking eyes.

 _"A skirmish at the fifty-meter line....Referees are not calling penalty....Katsura's defense closing in hard.... "_

Heels spun slick on the turf, and the ball sprang high off a firm-flexed knee.  The players angled and turned as a pack, as the crowd noise swelled to the stadium's topmost seats.

 _"Katsura has the ball.  Number fourteen, Koto-san moving fast up the field, angling for the goal.  Higashi defense is falling behind....but wait!  It looks like the center guard is moving in for a save.... "_

Three boys converged at the head of the pack, ten meters from the goal.  The ball backspun, skidded.  Bodies collided and shouts rang out from the bleachers.  As one player stumbled, the ball went flying, drawing the runners like magnets in its wake.

 _"Momoto-san running head-to-head with the Katsura captain now.... "_

The player who stumbled fell to his hands and knees; an uneasy moan rippled through the crowd.  Seconds ticked with both teams running full out, leaving the boy behind.  He lurched, trying to rise, then collapsed to his side.

 _"Look out, number twenty-two from Higashi is down.... "_  
A rear-guard teammate jogged toward the fallen boy, as the air-horn blasted Time Out.

 _"....after that bold save.... "_  
The crowd's voice dwindled to a tense mutter.  A field medic hurried out across the field.  The other players, far down field, paused to watch the scene; chests heaving, arming sweat from their eyes.

 _"This looks like bad news for Higashi High...."_

The field medic waved to the sidelines for help; a second man rushed out with a stretcher.  The crowd fell silent, apprehension lining every face.  High in the glare of the floodlights, white moths swirled like snowflakes; for a moment, everything else was frozen.

The only thing to break the quiet was the boy's choked-off scream, as he was lifted onto the stretcher.  The medics rose carefully, crossing with the slow dignity of pallbearers to the sidelines.

 _"The medical team is on their way to the emergency station, "_  the announcer said solemnly.  _"With Number twelve from Higashi High, Arai-san. "_

 

*  *

 

Even with his knee brace, even more than a year after his accident, Arai still couldn't hide his limp sometimes.  It was worse when the weather changed quickly, to cold or rain, and he felt a deep ache on those days, from the pressure in the joint.  His balance was precarious;  he walked like a man crossing an ice sheet, braced to lose his footing with every step.

He'd fallen a few times.  His knee would slip without warning, his leg would fold, and he'd hit the ground like a sack of fat onions, seeing black and stars from the pain, gasping from it.

The doctors said he probably wouldn't need surgery.  His legs were still growing, and they held out hope that the injury would heal on its own.  They said the pulled ligaments should mend, and in a few years he likely wouldn't even remember he'd had an accident.  In the meantime, ice and rest were prescribed, and over-the-counter remedies for the pain.

And that was all well and good in theory, until the first time he fell, after rising too quickly from the desk in his bedroom.  As he lay on the rug, eye-to-eye with the casters of his desk chair, terrified to shift an inch lest he jostle his screaming knee, he thought, _Not remember this?  I don't think so._   It might have been just as well he couldn't move then.  He would've gotten up and gone to strangle that last doctor.  And demand some real painkillers, while he was at it.

The doctor in the Karuizawa clinic was less brisk and more sympathetic (born and raised in town, treating locals all his long career), but his opinion was essentially the same one Arai had been given on visits throughout his senior year.  He told Arai to slow down, take it easy, and be patient with himself.

And Arai wanted to scream at the bastard,  _Patient?  It's been fifteen months, and still I can hardly walk.  Soccer is gone, college is out with the scholarships.  My life is done, and you're telling me to be patient?_

But it wasn't the old doctor's fault.  He was only trying to help.  It wasn't anyone's fault, really, that he'd twisted his knee in the last game of second year.  It wasn't anyone's fault that by third year, it was too late to change his course, look for scholarships in other fields.  Or that he missed too many days of school, and his class rank dropped along with his grades.  It was just terrible luck;  nobody was to blame.

His uncle had brought him to the clinic after Arai had gone down in the storeroom, upending a crate of apples from the shelf, landing hard on the wooden floor.  Hearing the racket, the man had come rushing in straightaway, bending over him fearfully.

"Not as bad as it looks," Arai had grimaced.  There would be bruises from the fall, but really, once you got past the surprise and sudden pain, and the nasty wet pop of the bone socket....well okay, it was hideous, but damned if he'd worry his uncle.

"We're quite the pair, aren't we," the man had remarked, relaxing somewhat.  Arai knew his uncle's hip had been bad for a long time, and his own lame attempt at stoicism wasn't fooling anyone.  But he had to try, for some reason.

"It's no big deal."  Silly thing to say when you were laying on the floor, surrounded by dumped produce, but it was the principle of the thing, damn it.

His uncle sighed.  "I should take you to Doctor Cato, anyway.  Your mother would never forgive me, if I didn't."

 _Oh, so you've met my dad, then,_ Arai was tempted to say.  He didn't, because such blatant disrespect still went hard against his grain.  But his dad had treated Arai's injury as some willful rebellion at the worst possible time, and it wasn't like Arai wanted sympathy or pity, it was just.  Couldn't the man even try to understand?  Arai could beat himself up on his own, plenty;  he didn't need help in that department.  He didn't need anybody else to tell him what he could plainly see for himself:  that his dreams, his life, they were over.

 

*  *  *  *  *


	3. Chapter 3

Part Three

 

The rains came the day Mitsukuni left home.  For nearly a week, it fell steadily;  pouring from the eaves and gutters, pattering on the pavements, the courtyards, dropping overlapping rings across the ornamental ponds.  Wind-driven torrents stripped ragged yellow leaves from the trees and sent everyone scurrying across the property, hunched beneath umbrellas, folded newspapers, and broad-brimmed straw hats, such as the gardeners wore.

It was four days before the downpour let up, and the weakening autumn sun broke through scudding clouds.  Within a day or two, the pavements dried, and the soggy leaves were all raked away.  But on that fourth day, the rain didn't stop for Mori.  It went on and on, for almost a year. 

He heard it on the telephone lines, when Mitsukuni called from Seoul, Berlin, Buenos Aires.  He felt it on his shoulders, his face, his hands, when he stood at the head of the driveway, sleepless in the deepest dark of night, searching for the headlights of a long black car that wasn't coming.

For months, that rain was a soothing white noise in his head.  He tuned in and out of conversations;  sometimes hearing words, sometimes hearing the susurration of water on stone, on leaves.  As long as no one expected a response from him, it didn't matter, and mostly they didn't.  But even when they did, it still didn't matter.  It was raining.

Once in a while, the rain turned on him;  he woke from dreams of dark water closing over his head, sheets wringing wet, sucking in air.  There were days the rain was cold, and no matter how many layers he wore, or how many hot drinks he put away, he was never really warm.  When his brother caught him trying to fit into an old ski parka in July, he threatened to go to their parents, have Mori taken to a doctor.  Satoshi's eyes were scared, wild, and Mori remembered what Mitsukuni had said all those months ago,  _Everyone in your house is afraid of you...._

He hung the coat back in the closet, and returned to his room without a word, gritting his teeth against the shivers that wracked him the whole way.

Soon after, he began taking walks.  Outside the family compound, past the neighborhood, wherever his aimless feet took him.  At first it was just for an hour or two.  Just to escape his house; empty rooms where the sound of the rain was too loud, ceilings too low, and walls pushing ever inward on him.  Once he discovered city streets, he walked farther and longer.  As one stranger among the hundreds he passed, Mori found a measure of peace.  He saw no fear, pity, or bafflement in these strangers' faces; none of them asked him questions he couldn't answer, or had to repeat things he hadn't heard.

On the city streets, he didn't always hear the rain.  He might hear the honk and rumble of busy traffic, or schoolchildren giggling, or the sky-splitting roar of jets overhead.  Gradually, one step at a time, the world began coming back to him.  

One afternoon he stood at an intersection crossing, crowded in with dozens of other pedestrians.  Men and women dressed for the office, some chatting about weekend plans or work gossip, others staring straight ahead at the crossing light, just as he was, waiting for it to change.  Mori felt the August sun beating down, felt the shoulders and elbows of the strangers pressed in around him, felt the hard hot pavement under the soles of his shoes.  

He waited, and waited, and then decided it was time to find somewhere else for his walks.  Somewhere less crowded, a little quieter.  Somewhere he could feel a clean breeze along with the sun, and where he wouldn't be forced to stop and wait for lights to change.  Somewhere not too familiar, but not quite foreign either.

When the light changed, he crossed the intersection, headed straight home and packed for Karuizawa that night.

 

*  *

 

Arai missed his delivery bike.  It had been retired for two summers in a row now, dust heavy on the seat, small spots of rust collecting on the wheel spokes.  He passed it in the garage occasionally, on trips between the storeroom and the back-alley dumpsters, taking the trash out.  He'd stop to trail his hand over the handlebars, with their worn rubber grips, remembering how there were always blisters on his hands, that first week of summer, until his callouses came back.

The bike was almost all his summer memories, really.  Pedaling hard to feel a breeze, down a dusty sun-baked country road.  The sound of tires gripping the pavement, up and down the streets of town.  The scents wafting up from his delivery basket--produce, flowers, washing detergent, suntan lotion--mingling with the smells from the food vendor's carts in town, or fresh-mown timothy on cool country mornings.

He missed the freedom of spinning around town, no master but his delivery list.  Free to speed, or explore side streets, or just coast along humming some tune he'd heard on the radio.  He missed visiting with the locals, and the tourists on his deliveries.  People were almost always glad to see him; there was almost always time for a short chat, a glass of cold lemonade on the porch.

The summer before last had been the best ever, probably.  He'd made friends with those guys from Haruhi's school, visiting at Misuzu's place.  And because it was Haruhi, his uncle (who'd heard that whole story the summer after middle school) gave him lots of time off to ride out there and hang around with them.  

He'd had the best time, doing crazy stuff like Kick The Can, and there was always some contest or mission they had going on (like that hilarious Raisin Scone project, with Hunny and Haruhi), and they sort of....drew him in along with them.  Just like he was one of them.

Even the quiet one, Morinozuka, treated him like he belonged.  Taught him how to fix a fence, laughed like anything at some silly thing Arai had said; he didn't even remember now what it was.  Just that they had laughed so hard, and it was like, this instant friendship happened.  He'd known practically nothing about Morinozuka, his likes or dislikes, or anything about his family.  But that day by the fence, they'd clicked, and it was effortless, and Arai had never forgotten that.

Out at Misuzu's, with the Ouran guys.  Those were some of the last trips he'd taken on that bike.  And because they'd been the best of his trips, the best of his memories, maybe that was why he missed them most of all.

This summer the bike was out of the question of course.  Instead, he braced up his knee and took over the deliveries in walking distance, while his uncle drove Arai's former route in his truck.  It wasn't a great arrangement, since it kept his uncle out of the store too much, and on a busy day, the walking was a lot harder on Arai than he cared to admit.  But then, following the visit with Doctor Cato, his uncle decided it was time for a different plan.

 

"You took Driver Education, last year, right?" he asked one morning.  
"Yeah.  Mom--uh, signed me up.  When I was still in the hospital."  Leaving _...when she didn't know if I'd walk again_ , unsaid.  His uncle knew what Mom was like, anyway.

"You passed?"  
"Yes."

"Good," said his uncle.  "What do you think about driving my truck the rest of the season?"  
"Uh, wow.  Yeah, I could do that, I guess."  

To be honest, Arai was intimidated.  His uncle took meticulous care of his truck, washing and waxing it twice a week, observing the maintenance schedule religiously.  Arai had passed his driving certification without mishap, but he couldn't help wishing he'd had a little more practice behind the wheel, prior to this.  The truck was five years old, and ran perfectly.  Not a scratch on it.

"I'll put you on my insurance next week.  In the meantime, you can ride along with me, get familiar with the new routes."

 

*  *

 

It was disorienting to Mori, coming to Karuizawa at the time of year he'd usually left.  The sights and scents were unfamiliar, and the days seemed shorter than they ought to be.  The days were still warm, but the mornings and evenings were chilly, and at night it was downright cold.

His arrival at the summer estate wasn't a complete surprise, apparently;  Mori supposed whoever made his travel arrangements had called ahead and warned Sakura-san, the elderly housekeeper who had been in charge of the main house for....well, generations, by the look of her.  But certainly for as long as Mori could remember.

She greeted him on his arrival, escorted him through the house, and installed him in his usual suite of rooms in the south wing; all the while keeping up a steady flow of opinions and trivia.  Describing the state of everything; the gardens, the pool, the roof over the kitchen, the lake, the village, and the disappointing behavior of the tourists these days.

It had been a rough flight from Tokyo, followed by a long drive, and Mori was happy to not think, and let himself be carried along by Sakura-san's chatter.

"....of course no one uses the pool hardly, except the maids on days off, but still we schedule it to be cleaned at season's end.  And would Bocchama believe the pool cleaners in town all have three-week waiting lists?  Three weeks, it's shocking, so many swimming pools in the town now.  Of course even a humble housekeeper knows that Morinozukas do not go on waiting lists; why the shame of such a thing.  It is honor to serve this family..."

Even the rigid decorum of the great families made allowances for the elderly; once Sakura-san reached her seventies, she took to offering her long soliloquies freely to anyone in earshot.  Most tolerated her quirks well enough, except for Mori's father who preferred quiet, succinctness, and could not abide the old woman's constant, indiscriminate talk.  Under the auspices of giving Sakura-san a less rigorous post in her declining years, he'd sent her from the main estate in Tokyo to the summer house, five years ago.  Many commented, and Mori privately agreed, that the Tokyo house had seemed a bit too quiet after that.

"....and we are grievously sorry to cause Bocchama such inconvenience, but it has been many years since the family visited the house in the off-season, and with the short notice, our staff arrangement is now terribly inadequate to his stay.  There is only myself and gardener Hito in the house, and the two local persons who come part-time in the day, the maid and the groundskeeper...."

Between Mori's fatigue and Sakura-san's age, it was a long walk to the south wing.  And he'd thought it seemed peculiar, that the only sound besides the housekeeper's voice, was the whisper of their stockinged feet across the floors.  Mori hadn't remembered it ever being so quiet on his arrival before.  Though if there was really no one else around, he supposed that explained it.  For that matter, it likely explained Sakura-san's volubility as well;  she'd had almost no one else to talk to for ages.

Perhaps, he thought, if the house got too quiet for him, he could simply find Sakura-san and listen to her talk awhile.  She seldom seemed to require answers from anyone; Mori wouldn't be a special case for once.  It could be a useful arrangement for them both.

 

*  *  *  *  *


	4. Chapter 4

Part Four

 

"Summer traffic is dying down, finally," Arai's uncle observed, carefully guiding his truck along a narrow street.  "Tourists are all going home."

Arai gazed out the window, watching the stores and signs and pedestrians.  It had definitely been quieter around town in the past week.  The shops and restaurants were posting new business hours for winter;  a few places had closed for the season altogether.  There was a feeling of things winding down;  of the town gradually settling in for a long winter rest.

"What's it like here in winter?" he asked his uncle.  
"Cold," the man chuckled.  "The nights are long.  Some folks feel shut away out here.  Usually tourists, who thought they'd stay through the year.  They find out it isn't what they'd bargained for.

"Why?" Arai asked.  "Does it snow a lot?"  
"Not much.  The mountains get the snow, but the valley mostly gets rain.  Goes on for days, sometimes.  Everything's muddy, or slush and ice.  Bad wind chill out of the mountains.  It isn't easy here, in winter.  You mostly want to stay tucked in near the kotatsu with a hot bowl of noodles."

"Sounds like heaven," Arai grinned.  Toasty-warm evenings indoors with the radio on, eating steaming helpings of udon, while the wind whistled beneath the eaves and the rain pelted the windows.

His uncle gave him a slightly skeptical look.  "Maybe.  You can tell me what you think after that first cold front."  Flicking a knowing look down toward Arai's knee. 

And Arai had considered this, that the mountain winter could be rougher than he'd bargained for.  But he and his uncle hadn't really talked about plans for after the season.  His uncle had raised an eyebrow at Arai's quantity of luggage when he'd first come, but he'd been aware Arai hadn't left home on the best of terms with his dad.  

He had figured at some point there would be a discussion between them, but then July slipped into August, fading on down into September, and he still wasn't sure how to broach the subject.  He didn't want to assume anything about his welcome long-term, and his uncle hadn't hinted he'd had any opinion one way or the other.

"I, um."  He looked down at his hands.  "I'd work hard anyway.  It might not be easy, but I wouldn't slack off or anything."  Despite what his dad thought.

The truck rolled slowly to a stop at an empty intersection.  His uncle turned and looked at him.  "I know you would, kid.  You've worked damn hard all summer.  But this is a small town.  Not a lot of opportunities for big success here."

Arai didn't mention that the opportunities weren't exactly knocking his door down back home; he just shrugged.

"Heaven knows I could use the help.  And you're a great kid.  I've watched you grow up into a good person, and I'm proud of you.  But I'd rather you didn't stay here, if you think this is all you have going for you."

Arai felt a flush of embarrassment;  that was exactly what he'd thought in May, when he'd first come.  But his perspective had changed, as he'd gotten used the idea of not going home.  Looking at it realistically, he'd felt he could be useful here long-term.  Because eventually his knee would get better, but his uncle wasn't getting any younger, or stronger, and the store work wasn't getting any easier on him.  Arai simply couldn't picture his uncle without the store, or the store without him;  the man's heart was too much in it.  But if he didn't want to give it up, his uncle would need help.

"I don't think it's all I have going for me," he finally said.  "Not, anymore, anyway.  I uh....I've learned a lot working with you.  And I really like helping out.  I can't picture myself in some office the rest of my life, y'know?  Or working in one of those huge factories.  That's why soccer was really important...."  He stopped and thought a second, decided if he was going to be honest with his uncle, he might as well be all the way honest.

"Dad said...." he sighed, shook his head.  "Dad thinks that I think I'm....I dunno, too good for a job like his?  But that's not really it.  It's like....what if there's a different choice?  What if I could do something I really liked, like you do?"

It was the closest he'd come to criticizing his dad, and Arai was worried how his uncle would take it.  He'd given some hints about the friction at home, and his uncle and his mom were pretty close, so it wasn't like the man didn't know the whole story.  Still, this was Dad's brother, and Arai was definitely not the favored son lately, and he'd figured he was best off keeping his mouth shut about it.  He couldn't afford friction here too.

But his uncle didn't seem upset.  He just nodded thoughtfully, leaned back in his seat and eased the truck forward once again.  Things were quiet for a few blocks, and then he said, "We could do a trial run, I suppose.  You make it through a winter here, and see how you feel come spring."

"Thanks," Arai said, feeling grateful and nervous, and like he'd just bench-pressed a bus off his chest.  He had no chance of getting all that into words though, so he just said, "Thanks," again.  "I promise I'll do my best."

His uncle nodded, smiled a little.  "I know you will."

*  *

Summer green faded quickly from the countryside;  soon enough, the fields and hills wore paupers' cloaks in winter hues.  Almond, dry wheat, dark coffee and pale charcoal were the palette of the quiet season.  The skies hung grey over brown-stubbled earth, and dry maple leaves danced in the sharpening wind; brittle scarlet husks scraping along the stone foundations of the Morinozuka house.

Mori walked the paths through the family property, and off into the high grasses where the paths ended, learning the new-edged contours of these lands.  He followed the dirt track that wound around the orchards, long untended; scuffed his shoes into the loose rock at the edge of the old family quarry.  With the cold wind gusting at his back, chilling him through his one thin sweater, Mori aimlessly revisited the haunts of his childhood summers.  The deep stone well by the empty stables, the climbing trees, the pool house that had doubled as a makeshift training doujo when Sensei summered with the family.  

He wandered through all these places, separating the thread of memory from the present, almost ghostly emptiness he found now.  It was melancholy in a way, but there were discoveries to be made in the changed land, too.  Not once on his walks, did he hear the sound of phantom rain which never met the ground.

Coming to Karuizawa had been the right thing to do, he determined.  Tokyo had been too immediate, too full of reminders of what his life wasn't anymore, and he'd been unable to do anything but retreat from his losses as completely as he could.  The hurt never went away there, because some hint of it was always before him, or just around the next corner.  The place was haunted through and through, with unquiet memories that never let him rest.

There were still one or two landmines in Karuizawa too, he found out.  A few setbacks still to be faced.

 

One such setback took him on a frosty morning when he'd overslept, woke up groggy and cold, and badly in need of coffee.  The only sweater he'd brought had disappeared the day before; doubtless seized by Sakura-san and spirited off to the laundry, and Mori was forced to rummage through a cupboard in one of the spare rooms, where she stored old clothing the family left behind on former vacations.  

He found only one sweater; it was black wool and had probably been too big on his brother Satoshi, but was definitely too small for him.  He pulled it on anyway, ignoring the cuffs stretching around his forearms, and the slight draft from the gap near his navel.  If it hadn't been a vee-neck, it might have choked him as well, but it didn't and he could just put up with the rest.  Mori was convinced he'd learned his lesson though; next time he decided to take a vacation for a nervous breakdown, he'd pay closer attention to the packing.

The small breakfast alcove off the kitchen was warmer at least;  he took a seat with the window at his back and rubbed his hands together to thaw them.  The ancient house was solid, well enough insulated in the central portion, but the residence wings had been built for comfort more in summer than winter.  Perhaps after breakfast, and most importantly coffee, he'd ask Sakura if there was an electric radiator he could borrow for his room.  And where to find warmer clothes, too.

The table was set for a full breakfast, and thankfully most of it was hot, including the coffee.  But Mori had the mug only halfway to his mouth, when he stilled for a second look at the table.  Something was amiss here.

It was all the sort of hearty food that went down well on cold winter mornings.  Eggs, ham, oatmeal, muffins.  There were toppings for the eggs, some kind of gravy for the ham, and....syrup.  For the oatmeal.

Mori frowned.  Sakura-san knew he only liked tart fruit in his oatmeal.  They'd had that discussion years ago.  
 _Pineapple, Bocchama?_  she'd said, with a deeply skeptical look.  
 _If we have it,_  he'd shrugged.   _Green apples are fine too._

He'd never put syrup in his oatmeal, or on anything at all for that matter.  The only one who liked syrup was.....

Mori's hand shook and the coffee spilled.  He set the mug down hard, spilling more.  
"I can't do this," he announced to the empty room.  He just couldn't.  Not anymore.  Not here.

"Is Bocchama finding everything he needs?" asked Sakura-san, appearing at once in the doorway.  "I had Kuki-chan set the table, so sorry if she missed anything."    
The old housekeeper's sharp eyes darted about the table, taking in every detail at a glance.  The place setting, the spilled coffee, the young Master's slumped posture, and finally the syrup they kept especially for young Master Haninozuka's visits.  She let out a little gasp, understanding the magnitude of the error instantly, and turned in the doorway, calling toward the kitchen.

"Kuki-chan!" she cried, and Mori's mind--desperate to escape the sudden quicksand of memory--seized on the nearest irrelevancy at hand.  
 _Twig tea?  What kind of name is that?_

 "...You silly, empty-headed girl.  How could you make such a foolish mistake?"  Sakura-san's voice rose in pitch, and Mori ducked, thinking he'd caused serious trouble.  
"Please," he said wearily.  "Sakura-san, it isn't necessary--."  But his protest went unheard.  The woman was already storming off at a surprising pace, calling dire threats out to the poor luckless maid.

Mori shoved himself back from the table, tossing his napkin over the spilled coffee.  His appetite had vanished, and the kitchen might well be a war zone soon, if he didn't intervene.  Though at least it got him away from the damned syrup.

He passed through the kitchen, ducking the hanging racks of pots and pans, following Sakura-san's strident tones toward the pantry.  For some reason, the harangue dropped off there, rather suddenly, and Mori guessed grimly that the woman had caught the maid and was saving her breath in aid of some physical expression of her displeasure, or else the girl had simply fled out the back door adjacent, and was at that moment rabbiting out across the fields, flushed with her narrow escape.

Reaching the pantry, Mori saw that at least the former scenario hadn't come to pass;  Twig Tea-chan was nowhere in evidence, but then neither was Sakura-san's outrage of moments ago.  It seemed they had a visitor at the delivery door, and the housekeeper had shifted gears with her usual remarkable efficiency, to greet the person entering.

"....my, what a generous soul you are, to come out to us this morning.  No, come in, come in.  Just put that box on the counter, thank you.  Oh that terrible cold wind, here let me close this door.  Brrrr!  I don't know how anyone manages out on a morning like this, my poor old bones can't bear a chill.  Tch, I see you grinning, boy.  Just you wait until you're old, and not so spry anymore...."

Mori could see the visitor's grin beneath his flannel cap.  It was lopsided, honest and good-natured, and so impossibly familiar that it stopped Mori in his tracks.  He stood rooted to the spot, his mouth dry, his mind an utter blank, as the visitor obligingly bent to remove his sturdy winter boots.  

Sakura-san was still prattling happily in the background, but Mori paid absolutely no heed to anything but this one person before him.  The person who just then glanced up from beneath his cap, and hit Mori with a dazzling smile.  On top of everything else that morning, it was too much for him.

Breathe! his brain shouted at him.  You're going to pass out if you don't breathe.

"Hey," said the visitor, just as easygoing and natural as if it had been two days instead of over two years.  "I thought I might see you here."

 

*  *

 

That morning hadn't started out too well for Arai.  His alarm had gone off at five, and he'd barely been able to crawl out of bed, his knee was so stiff.  He washed down four headache pills with his coffee at breakfast, and though his uncle didn't comment, the man did glare at his eggs more sternly than they probably deserved. 

Arai started to help clear the dishes, but his uncle waved him off, so he headed carefully, carefully down the stairs into the store, holding his breath between each step, to start the morning's work.  He swept up, and dusted the shelves, restocking all the canned and dry goods from the storeroom. 

Once the central heat was running, the store warmed up gradually, as did Arai; after an hour of light work, he was moving around pretty well.  At least until it was time to unload the produce truck.

Up and down the street, every storefront window was glazed in frost, and the wind cut through Arai's sweater like a frozen wood saw.  He was determined not to let it slow him down, but his kneecap had that tight dicey feeling like it wanted to pop off, and even with his brace on, he took extra care with every load he carried from the truck.  His uncle wasn't moving too swiftly either, and even with the help of the delivery driver, Arai and his uncle were both breathing hard, by the time it was all done.

"What did I tell you," his uncle said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, near the register.  "We're a pair, me and you."  
Arai tugged off his work gloves to wipe his eyes.  "The cold wouldn't be so bad," he gasped.  "But that wind goes right through you."  
His uncle gave him a rueful grin.  "Wait 'til that wind comes packing rain."  He tucked away his handkerchief, and turned to his delivery ledgers by the register.

"So, think you can handle getting back out in that, or you want to stay and mind the store awhile?"  
"I'll take deliveries," Arai said, not giving himself a chance to think twice.  It was tempting, very tempting to want to stay in where it was warm, and keep his leg up awhile.  But he'd promised he wouldn't slack off, and making his uncle do a job he himself dreaded was out of the question.  He'd just have to suck it up.

"You sure?" his uncle asked, his tone leaving plenty of room for Arai to back out.  
"Yeah," Arai nodded quickly.  "What do we have today?"  
"Not much.  Couple stops in town, a trip out to the Morinozuka house."  Adding, "You'll want to take it easy on those hill roads, could be ice."

"Morinozuka, huh.  Guess it's another visit with Sakura-san, then."  
His uncle chuckled.  "Don't worry.  I won't expect you back any time soon."  
"I don't mind her," Arai shrugged.  "I guess nobody's been out there in awhile, so she's just lonely."

"I don't know," said his uncle, pulling out his reading glasses to check the order list.  "Could be somebody's shown up there.  This is the biggest order we've had from them yet."

Arai had to try very hard to stand still, to not give away his sudden, foolish excitement.  _Don't be stupid_ , he warned himself.  It could be anybody visiting up there.  He hasn't been out for two years, anyway, the housekeeper said so.  
"Huh," he told his uncle, not quite trusting himself past one syllable.

"Say, that reminds me...."  The man set aside the order, and turned.  "Didn't you mention one of Fujioka's friends was called Morinozuka?  Couple summers back?"  
"Y-yeah," said Arai.  "Takashi-san.  They both went to that school I told you about."  
"Morinozuka Takashi?  The Kendo champion?"

"Uh, yeah.  He um.  Won Nationals last year, I guess.  I saw it in the paper."  
His uncle shook his head.  "I'll be damned."  For a moment, he looked thoughtful.

"Wait.  It wasn't that Morinozuka, that Misuzu-san sent that huge gift basket to, was it?"

Arai couldn't help grinning.  "He fixed the fence at the pension.  He let me help, some too."

"Let you help?" his uncle asked, looking skeptical.  "I guess no one warned him about your apple boxes."

Arai ducked slightly, embarrassed.  "I--sorta did.  But he, Takashi-san, was a good teacher."  Giving a tiny shrug.  "Patient, even though I didn't know anything."

His uncle considered this.  "You know," he said, nodding slowly.  "I thought your boxes looked better this summer."

 

Taking his uncle's advice, Arai took extra care on the winding country roads leading to the Morinozuka estate.  He kept his eyes glued to the road ahead, and both hands on the wheel, but inside, he was a flurry of anxious distracted thoughts.  What if Takashi was the visitor his uncle had theorized about?  Would he remember Arai at all?  

Sure, there had been cards and notes from the Host Club, cheery messages signed by everyone.  And he'd written back too, for a few months.  But then exams came along, and soccer training took over after that, and correspondence on both sides gradually dropped away.  He'd thought about them all on occasion; whenever he saw a pair of identical twins somewhere, or like that day he ran across a bunch of kids playing Kick The Can.  

And it was weird, how seeing those things made him smile, but at the same time gave him this little twinge of something too.  Like when you realized you'd forgotten a good friend's birthday, or when you spaced on a test and had to skip questions you knew you had studied for.  It wasn't the embarrassing mistake part of it, it was more the feeling that....things should've gone differently.  That you should have done something more, something better, when you had the chance.

Arai wasn't sure what he regretted, when he remembered that week with the guys from Ouran.  He could never pin it down to any one thing, and eventually he quit trying.  He'd had plenty else to keep him occupied that year, and then with his accident, everything around him fell apart.  He hardly thought of anything else, after that.

Except for that one time, when he'd seen Takashi's picture in the paper, after the Championship.  Arai had been cooped up in the apartment all summer, going crazy, his mom throwing a fit whenever he tried to do anything, and his dad throwing a fit because Arai never did anything.  He was damned no matter what.  

He was sick of T.V., sick of listening to the radio, sick of laying in bed or sitting on the sofa, and most of all sick of being in pain, and being helpless to get away from it.  He'd taken to reading stacks of newspapers out of sheer desperation, from headlines to obituaries, just to focus on something outside himself for awhile.

He didn't remember much about the article; it was the photograph that got him.  Recognition hit like a thunderbolt out of a blue sky, right at first glance.  He just....locked on to Takashi instantly.  Everything about him came back to Arai, before Arai even had time to think, or go looking for those year-old memories.  Takashi was there.  The way he talked, his stillness, the way those calm dark eyes had looked at him.

Arai had to lean in, look closer at the printed photo, because the eyes had been important, that was the thing he remembered from the beginning.  But in the photo, Takashi's eyes weren't the same.  Arai looked carefully, but no.  There was something different.

It was the photographers, he realized.  He couldn't say where the knowledge came from, just that he knew.  All that attention thrust on Takashi at once, room full of people with flashbulbs and questions.  It must have been rough on him, Arai thought.  And for some unknown reason, Arai wished he could've helped.

Never mind that he could barely help himself across the room at that time;  that didn't matter.  Takashi's eyes were too fixed, not at all calm in that photo, and Arai wished he had been there to do something, anything to intervene.  He had smashed the hell out his hand with the hammer dozens of times that summer, but when Takashi told him, _I won't let you hit your hand_ , Arai had believed him.  On no prior evidence, without question.

And propped in his bed, newspaper in hand, and the fifth ice pack of the day on his knee, Arai had wondered.   _Could he help me now, if he was here?_   That incredible patience, the assurance of a warm hand closing over his own.  Things would seem less bleak, for sure.  He'd be less scared about his future.  Maybe he could even figure out a way to take it easy until his knee got better, like the doctors had said.  Instead of going stir crazy, cringing as his parents argued, and turning everything in on himself.

If he was here, could it make things better?

Arai parked the truck in the service drive, next to the side entrance of the house, turned the ignition off and just sat a moment.  He couldn't get his hopes up.  It was what, a ten-percent chance, at most?  He'd bring the packages in, chat awhile with Sakura-san (or listen while she chatted, anyway), maybe get some coffee and a hot roll.  But that would be it.  He just, wouldn't worry about anything else.  Anyone else.

He was doing fine until he bent to get his boots off.  Sakura-san was going on about the cold, and even though he'd had every reason to complain just as much at five a.m., he grinned at her, and that was when he saw someone.  Just across the pantry, in the doorway.  All he could see was a pair of jeans, house slippers, and he told himself to cool it;  it could be anybody.  A brother, a cousin, a dad.  He let himself take just one quick, natural glance upward, expecting nothing with all his might. 

And oh God.  

Arai knew he was smiling like an idiot.  He said Hi, or something;  words were coming out his mouth while his brain was in pieces.  Because it was Takashi.  He was right there, miraculously, and  _whoa, hey, had he always looked that--?_

Dodging the first adjective that came to mind, Arai paused, and really paid attention.  Then he felt his smile fall as his loopy joy did a dizzying about-face.

What Takashi looked like, was a man who'd just staggered in from someone's funeral.  What was going on here?

 

*  *  *  *  *


	5. Chapter 5

Part Five

 

When a friend you hadn't seen in two years suddenly arrived in your pantry one morning, it was impossible to tell them,  _Hey, sorry but my life's a shambles at the moment, and I haven't had coffee.  Think you could come back when I have a grip on things?_   It wasn't that Mori wasn't tempted for an instant, it just wasn't done.  It wasn't done if you were Morinozuka, and it especially wasn't done if the friend in question was someone you'd only ever dreamed of seeing again.

So instead, Mori directed all his energy at mustering a smile for Arai, wishing it felt more natural, but willing to take what he could get.  
"Hi," he said.

"Um.  Did I come at a bad time?" Arai asked, standing in his socks, one boot in hand.  
Mori didn't care to lie, so he simply omitted.  

"It's good to see you again." Thinking it was odd;  thirteen months ago, it would have been better than good, it would have been his fondest wish come true.  Strange, how wishes could be swept aside by circumstances.

"Same here," said Arai, shoving his free hand in the pocket of his jeans.  Not entirely at ease, perhaps, but trying.

Astonishingly, Sakura-san hadn't spoken for several seconds; she only watched the two of them curiously.  It occurred to Mori that this wasn't something she saw every day; the Master of the house chatting up the delivery boy at the back door.  Very faintly, the idea amused him.

"Would you like coffee?" he found himself asking, possibly because his brain was on autopilot and his own need for coffee was acting navigator.  But he was rewarded by a mild shift in Arai's expression, from hesitation into something that might be relief, if it found its footing.  Mori had a fleeting sense of deja-vu;  there and gone before he could pin it down.

"That would be great," Arai nodded earnestly.  And this time, Mori's smile felt better.

He led the way through the kitchen, Sakura-san fluttering behind them to take Arai's coat and cap.  Mori was headed for the breakfast room out of sheer thoughtless habit, but right at the kitchen door, he halted, remembering what was in there.

"Kitchen table is better ," he mumbled, turning abruptly on his heel.  "It's warmer in here."  Catching Sakura-san's eye on the way past, adding, "If that's alright."

Thankfully, she caught on straightaway.  "Bless me, Bocchama may of course go anywhere in this house he pleases.  A simple housekeeper would never presume to tell him where he should or shouldn't be."

This was patently untrue, Mori knew.  She'd been shooing him out of the pantry, the attic, the spare bedrooms, the linen closets, and his father's study since he was a child.  But he wasn't about to risk correcting her.

She rushed to the old wooden table steps ahead of them, pulling out chairs, and hurriedly brushing imaginary crumbs off the spotless tabletop.  "Bocchama is so modest, wishing to spare his housekeeper the shame of the messy breakfast room," she sang.  "And I pray our guest may forgive our disorder this morning, but it's been one thing and another with that silly, vapor-headed Kuki-chan making trouble at every opportunity--"

Arai, taking the nearest seat, turned a puzzled look on Mori.  Waited until Sakura-san's back was turned, and mouthed  _Twig Tea?_  at him.

Mori clapped a hand over his mouth just in time, sealing in a sudden hard snort of laughter.  His eyes watered, and everything from his chest to his sinuses  _hurt_  from holding back.

"...honestly I don't know how one could manage anything, with such a bothersome person underfoot...."  The housekeeper's tireless monologue trailed off into the breakfast room, and Mori gave in, put his head down and quietly let go.

"Um," said Arai, but Mori intercepted him with a weak hand wave.  
"No idea," he said on his next breath.  And whether he meant his laughter, or the maid's name, or the harmless insanity of his ancient housekeeper, even he wasn't sure.  He did know that this sneak-attack of mirth felt good; even the hurt in his diaphragm felt good, like stretching parts of himself gone too long unused.

Arai still looked somewhat wary though, and Mori realized they still didn't have any coffee.  Deciding it was time to take matters into his own hands, he stood and grabbed a couple of mugs he spotted on the sideboard, and moved in on the coffeepot.

*  *

Whatever lingering uncertainty Arai may have had regarding his welcome, it seemed the coffee put it to rest.  
"This is seriously good stuff," he told Mori, on the second cup.  "Why do I have a feeling this didn't come from our store?"

"We've always had this brand," Mori shrugged.  "It's Viennese, I think."    
"Hmm," said Arai, taking another sip.  Mori did the same, for the sake of filling the pause in conversation.  He had a sense that though the ice had been cracked, it wasn't quite broken.  Strangely, he was reminded of the Host Club, where the coffee was generally a safe topic until some other common interest was established.  Tamaki had taught him that.

"I didn't know your uncle's grocery delivered here," he said.  
"We didn't, until recently.  I guess it was Misuzu-san's gift that started it."

"Gift?" Mori asked, trying to think if he might have forgotten such a thing.  It was highly unlikely, he decided.  
"Yeah, um.  The basket that--."  Arai broke off as something dawned on him.  "Oh that's right, you were gone by then.  Misuzu-san ordered this huge gift basket from the grocery, as a thanks for the fence you fixed.  I guess you didn't hear about it?"

Mori frowned.  "I got a card."  He shot a look toward the kitchen door, wondering if Sakura-san's long absence was somehow significant in this.

"Oh," Arai said.  "Well somebody here must have liked the basket, because they've been ordering stuff from the grocery ever since."  
"A good thing," Mori guessed.

"It's really good," Arai nodded.  "My uncle never had business from the big estate houses around here, because they always have their stuff shipped in."  He spared a glance down at the coffee, shrugged, and went on.  "So it helps, y'know?  He's happy about it.  Plus, it means he can pay me now, so I'm happy too," he grinned.

"Hmm," said Mori, who'd never been paid for a day's work in his life.  All his money was Morinozuka money.  It existed in accounts and on plastic cards; only very seldom was it in his pocket or his hand.  Briefly he wondered what that would be like, earning one's own money, paying for one's own things.

There was another lull in conversation; they both sipped their coffee.  Mori tried to remember any other tricks Tamaki might have mentioned, about polite chitchat.  Weather, books, and travel all came to mind.  But he hadn't read any books lately, and weather seemed a desperate last resort.

"You worked in town all summer?" he asked.  
"Yeah.  I um.  Sort of had a change in plans, about what to do after graduation.  So I thought I'd stay on awhile, and keep helping my uncle."

Something about Arai's expression regarding his 'change in plans' suggested it wasn't entirely voluntary.  Mori had a feeling this might be a topic they had in common, but it seemed too soon for something that personal.  So he nodded.

"What about you?" Arai asked.  "Are you in town for awhile?"  
"Hmm," Mori agreed.  "I never visited here in winter, before."  
"Me either," said Arai.  "My uncle said it could be rough, though.  And there isn't much to do."

After that, the silence spun out almost unbearably.  Mori tipped his cup, drained it, and finally gave in.  
"How's the weather this morning?"  
"Cold," Arai summarized.  "There was a pretty sharp wind earlier, but it's died down.  Looks like it might rain later, though."

"Oh," Mori said.  "I thought about taking a walk."  
Arai considered this.  "It's alright for a walk, I guess.  Once you got moving, you probably wouldn't feel the cold."  
On sudden impulse, Mori asked, "You want to come?  On a walk?"

"Ah."  Arai frowned, winced slightly.  "Sorry, but I can't."  As he spoke, he reached down with one hand, unconsciously, and rubbed at his leg.  "I'll have to head back to town soon.  Back to work.  But maybe some other time, when I'm free?"  
    
He had touched that same leg a few times already, and Mori had wondered if it was worth commenting on.  But as Arai hadn't brought it up, or even seemed aware of the gesture, Mori let it pass.  

"Sure," Mori nodded, adding, "you're welcome to come back."  
Arai's grin resurfaced.  "Thanks."

It was as Mori was showing Arai to the door, that he noticed a difference in the young man's walk.  It wasn't that same careless stride of two years ago; Arai was crossing the floor with the care of an elderly person, favoring the same leg he'd touched in their conversation.  And for whatever reason, Mori didn't want to let this pass.

"You're limping," he noted.  "Is something wrong?"  
"Oh, that."  Arai's tone was dismissive, but his posture tensed slightly.  He pulled out his winter cap, shook it out, and tugged it on, saying, "It's nothing.  Leg's just a little stiff today."

He straightened then, and one look at his eyes told Mori that Arai was omitting.  Not lying, but hoping rather fervently that no further questions would be asked.  It was a feeling Mori knew intimately, and he understood the best thing he could do in this case was respect Arai's wishes.

"I hope it feels better," he said.  
Arai sat in the alcove to slip his boots on, then stilled briefly, head down.  "Thanks," he said quietly.  "Me too."

 

*  *

The next few days held blessedly few surprises.  No unfortunate condiments at breakfast, no drop-in visitors from the past, and no vanishing sweaters.  In fact, the day after Mori was forced to wear Satoshi's old sweater, a box arrived containing the rest of his winter wardrobe from Tokyo.  Sakura-san told him the staff there had packed it for him, when it became apparent how much he'd left behind.

Going through the box, he thought he should feel more regret than he did.  With a full winter wardrobe, there was no more pretending this was a sudden escape somewhere temporary.  He was moved in for the season now, and probably wouldn't see home for some time.  And as he pulled on his own heavy cable-knit sweater, and flannel lined trousers, Mori found the thought didn't trouble him in the least.

Several days in a row, he lingered over breakfast, thinking Arai might return for that walk he'd offered.  But the young man didn't show, and Mori continued alone in his wandering.  Each passing day however, he felt more restless in his walks.  The terrain was familiar to him by now, and as he walked paths he'd already been down, he found himself looking for something new.  Some mark in the air, or the scenery, that might indicate he'd reached a destination.  But nothing of that nature appeared, so he pressed on with long, steady strides.

One afternoon he cut through the small pear orchard, on his way back to the house, and paused to catch his breath under a tree.  He had one hand on the trunk, and was looking up through bare branches as thin and delicate at a bird's skeleton.  Through the branches, the sky was flat grey mottled with low restless clouds, and Mori watched the clouds, shifting shape with the wind.

"It's been years since we had a decent crop from these trees," an approaching voice said.  
Mori turned, looked curiously at the old man ambling toward him.  Sun-browned face heavily lined beneath his wide straw hat.  Old-fashioned cotton smock and trousers.  It was Hito, the estate's Head Gardener, who always looked like he'd just wandered out from a scene by Hiroshige.

The man reached out a gnarled hand, and patted the tree trunk, grunting out a sigh.  
"Bocchama ate these fruits as a child," he commented.  "In fact, he used to climb this very tree for pears."

Mori stared at him, as the recollection surfaced out of nowhere.  Bark scratching his bare feet, gripping the branches in his small sweaty palms.  
"I--I remember that," he said.  
"Hm," Hito nodded.  "I also ate the fruit of this tree as a child."  Catching Mori's questioning glance, he elaborated.  "Time was, this land fed all the Morinozuka clan, and its servants.  During the war, it fed all of Karuizawa as well."

Looking around at the small, unassuming orchard--more ornamental than anything--Mori asked, "How?"

"The old families in this region counted their wealth in fertile land," said Hito.  "Morinozuka, Haninozuka, Ootori.  They cultivated to feed family and retainers."

"What changed?" Mori asked, failing utterly to picture any Ootori engaged in farming.  
"The world changed," the old man shrugged.  "The Masters of the houses found other fortunes.  They cultivated less.  But when the world war came, Bocchama's great-grandfather Ichigo-sama put us all to work farming again.  We would have starved otherwise.  Times were very hard."

Morinozuka Ichigo was the stuff of family legend; Mori knew because he'd heard practically all of them his entire life.  It was Ichigo who'd been responsible for bringing the Morinozuka and Haninozuka families together in marriage.  This was many years after the man had scandalized the clan by marrying a country girl of no wealth or lineage.  Some of the family remarked that Mori looked very like his great-grandfather;  though Mori didn't see much resemblance personally, in the photographs he'd found.  Still, Ichigo had always sounded interesting to him.

"And after the war?" he asked the gardener.  
"We had other work.  Bocchama's grandfather was Master then, and he brought us to Tokyo to rebuild."

Suddenly, something clicked for Mori.  "I remember you.  With the doujo gardeners."  
The old man's face spread in a gap-toothed smile.  "Bocchama's Sensei disciplined him with gardener's labor," he nodded.  "Taught you patience, did it not?"  
Mori recalled that discipline all too well.  Long backbreaking hours on his knees, pulling weeds from the rock garden and ponds.  The sun beating down on his neck, his young hands scraped and blistered.

"It taught me to pay attention to my kata," he allowed dubiously.  
Hito's chuckle had a child's mischief to it.  "Sensei was wise," he told Mori.  "He understood about cultivating men."

Mori couldn't think of any response he was qualified to give on that subject, so he gazed around him, trying to picture the landscape as it might have been once.  Dark rich fields busy with planting, and reaping.  Hills ringing with the noise of work, oxen tramping down the same paths he had lately walked.  He imagined the trees heavy with fruit, and green shoots poking sunward from the earth.

A fresh breeze kicked up, ruffling his hair and swaying the branches overhead.  Mori turned from his daydream to see Hito regarding him astutely.

"It's been a long time since these lands saw a Morinozuka master," he said, and then turned his eyes up into the tree branches.  Mori watched him, wondering what the old gardener saw.  The past, or the future, or simply an old pear tree, bare and grey as winter.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 _[end Book Three]_


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